Snobbery With Violence (24 page)

They got so drunk and obnoxious that the landlord had to send a message to the castle appealing to the marquess to come and get rid of them.

The remaining ladies, equally disappointed, were heading towards London. Perhaps each in her way was more shocked by the happenings than Rose. For a brief spell their lives, which had been as well-padded by wealth and class as their fashionable hourglass figures, had been invaded by a darker world. Maisie Chatterton and Lady Sarah Trenton longed for the bright lights and shops of London. Frederica Sutherland planned to stay only two days in London before journeying to her home in Scotland.

Maisie Chatterton decided she would never lisp again. Her mother had told her that men were fascinated by a girlish lisp, but all they did was to stare at her and then ask her to repeat what she had just said.

Lady Sarah planned to hint at the horror of the dark happenings at the castle and at the next ball conveniently swoon into the arms of the most handsome man present.

Frederica Sutherland was determined to convince her parents that there was no need for her ever to go south again, no need for her to leave her beloved dogs and horses.

She turned in the carriage and looked back at Castle Telby standing up square and bleak against the winter sky. She considered herself a jolly good sort, good at hunting and shooting, better than the men. She could not wait to get out of these frippery clothes and get some decent tweeds on again.

Harry felt quite low as Becket unlocked the door of the house in Water Street. His leg was hurting and he put it down to that. Becket went upstairs to unpack Harry’s bags and Harry lit the fire in his front parlour and settled down with a glass of sherry.

He felt almost angry with Rose at having hit on a solution to the murders and nearly getting herself killed. He was the detective. He was the one who should have hit on a solution to the mystery.

He rose and picked up his mail and began to sift through it. There was one from a Mrs. Debenham asking him if he could find her lost poodle. Is this all his intelligence was capable of, while some silly, unfeminine female went around solving murders?

Becket came in carrying his slippers.

“Pour yourself a glass of sherry, Becket, and sit down. I feel like company.” Becket poured a glass and sat down on the other side of the fireplace.

“I don’t think I should go on with this stupid detective business, Becket. What do you think?”

“It is not my place to say, sir.”

“Just this once, make it your place.”

“If I may say so, sir, you were doing very well and we
have comforts such as the motor car which we did not have before.”

“I could travel. Find some work in the colonies.”

Then I really won’t see Daisy again, thought Becket.

“You said, sir, that Superintendent Kerridge had suggested you might start a proper detective agency. Should you do that, you would maybe be given more interesting work. The insurance companies, for example, must always be looking for investigators.”

“I feel I, and not Lady Rose, should have hit on the solution to what had been going on at the castle.”

“That was just luck on Lady’s Rose’s part. And just think! Had you not told me to keep guard on Lady Rose, she would be dead.”

Harry brightened slightly. “That’s true.”

“I could look for suitable premises tomorrow,” suggested Becket.

“Let me think about it.”

Just before Christmas, Rose finally agreed to attend a ball at the Cummings’ with her mother. Lady Polly was worried about her daughter. Ever since they had arrived in London from the castle, Rose had appeared tired and listless.

“Cheer up,” said Daisy as she arranged silk flowers in Rose’s hair. “Captain Cathcart might be there and you can talk about old times.”

“Those times are not yet old enough for my comfort. I would like to forget about the whole thing. Do you think this yellow is unflattering?”

Rose was wearing a yellow sateen evening gown embroidered with tiny yellow primroses and with inserts of white lace.

“It’s a pretty gown but you are a bit pale,” said Daisy. “Maybe a touch of rouge?”

“No.”

“What about this idea of us being businesswomen? I read the advertisements every day.”

“Oh, that was a silly idea, Daisy. I would never be allowed to do it. This is my life from now on. I may as well settle for some amiable man and then at least I would have my own establishment.”

Daisy bit back a sigh. She thought it would be wonderful to have a life filled with nothing but balls and parties and pretty dresses. She opened the curtains and looked down into the square. “Fog’s coming down. Going to be nasty. I’d better have that dress shut away when we get back. When it’s a bad one, the fog gets in everywhere.”

By the time Lady Polly had fussed over her daughter’s appearance and made her change her evening bag and gloves several times, they were late leaving, and what Dickens had called a London particular had settled down on the city.

“Thank goodness we haven’t got far to go,” said Lady Polly as the carriage rolled the short distance to Belgrave Square. “I can hardly see a thing out of the windows.”

“I hate knee-breeches,” grumbled the earl. “Silly things. Ought to be confined to court appearances. With my figure, I feel I look like Humpty Dumpty.”

“You look very fine, my dear,” said Lady Polly.

Surely her parents had married for love, thought Rose. Lady Polly never found any fault with her husband. Rose had seen
photographs of their wedding day. Her father had been a slim, handsome man then, and she was sure that was how her mother still saw him.

The coach lurched to a stop. Extra footmen hired for the evening lined the entrance. “I wonder how you clean all that gold braid after the fog/’ wondered Daisy. “Must ask Beckett Then she remembered there was no Becket to ask and felt quite low.

In an ante-room reserved for the ladies, Daisy removed Rose’s fur coat and checked that her hair was still in order and that none of the little silk primroses in it had come loose. Bands of fog lay across the ante-room.

Rose mounted the staircase to the ballroom where their hosts appeared at the top through thickening layers of fog.

“So kind of you to come out on such a dreadful night,” murmured Mrs. Cummings.

To Lady Polly’s relief, her daughter’s dance-card was soon filled up. The scandal appeared to have been forgotten.

Rose had given up the idea of trying to engage any of her partners in intelligent conversation and so was a great success.

Harry had decided to attend the ball. He would not admit to himself that he hoped Rose would be there. His white shirt-front well protected against the choking fog, he motored alone to Belgrave Square, having told Becket there was no need to accompany him and failing to notice the look of disappointment on Becket’s face.

He mounted the steps to the ballroom with an unusual feeling of anticipation. As he was late, his hosts had joined their guests. He surveyed the room where the dancers twirled in a
waltz and sent the wreaths of fog spiralling about them.

“Captain Cathcart!*

He looked down and found Lady Polly beside him.

“Good evening,” said Harry happily. “I trust your daughter is well.”

“Very well and engaged for every dance. It would be better if you did not approach her. She has not been well in spirit since the dreadful events at the castle. I beg you to leave her alone.”

“Certainly,” said Harry coldly.

Rose danced past in the arms of a handsome guardsman. She saw him and her eyes widened.

Harry turned on his heel and walked back down the stairs. He should never have come. His leg was hurting. It looked as if it was going to be a bad winter. He would go somewhere warm and decide what to do with his life.

A footman was helping him into his fur coat when Daisy appeared at his side. “Why, Daisy,” said Harry, “how are you?”

“I’m all right,” said Daisy, “but my mistress is not the same. She’s so sad and quiet. Where’s Becket?” she asked eagerly, looking around.

“Becket is in Chelsea. I will tell him I saw you.”

“Are you doing any more detective work, sir?”

“No. In fact I have just decided I have had enough of London weather. I crave some sunshine. I think I will take myself off to Nice.”

“Where’s that?”

“The south of France, Daisy.”

“And will you take Becket with you?”

“Of course. We could both do with some good weather.”

“Tell Mr. Becket I wish him well,” said Daisy and trailed off.

The ball finished early because of the dreadful weather. As Rose and her parents stood on the steps waiting for the carriage to be brought round, snow began to fall through the filthy fog, great lacy flakes.

The earl let out a rattling cough. “My dear, your chest!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “Pull your scarf up round your throat. Thank goodness. Here’s our carriage.”

Rose sat silently in her corner of the carriage. Why hadn’t Harry spoken to her? It would have only been polite. They had been through so much together. She felt jaded and weary and a large tear rolled down her cheek.

Lady Polly saw that tear in the dim light of the carriage lamp and let out a squawk of dismay. “You are never crying, Rose. You were such a success.”

“I am not feeling very well,” lied Rose.

Lady Polly fussed over her daughter while Daisy prepared her for bed. Then she told the maid to come with her.

Daisy followed Lady Polly’s sturdy little figure to the countess’s sitting-room.

“Is my daughter really ill?” demanded Lady Polly. “Should we send for the doctor?”

“I think Lady Rose is suffering from delayed shock,” said Daisy. A bright idea dawned in her head.

“I think what Lady Rose, and, if I may be so bold, the master need is some sunshine.”

“We are due to leave for Stacey next week,” said Lady Polly impatiently, “and there isn’t any sunshine there.”

“I was thinking of Nice, my lady. That’s in the south of France.”

“I know where it is. My old friend, Gertie Robbald, lives permanently in the Imperial Hotel.”

“Sea air and sunshine,” cooed Daisy, “would do Lady Rose the world of good.”

“You may be right. But we always have Christmas at Stacey.”

The earl came in at that moment, coughing and wheezing. “It’s too bad,” he said. “Brum tells me the factor phoned and two of the pipes have burst at Stacey and the drawing-room is flooded.”

“Run along,” Lady Polly ordered Daisy.

Daisy went outside the door and pressed her ear to the panels.

“I have had an idea,” said Lady Polly. “We don’t want to go back to a freezing, flooded house. I am worried about your chest and about poor Rose being so frail. Why don’t we go to Nice? Gertie’s there, at the Imperial. We could get some sunshine and sea air.”

“Be funny not celebrating Christmas in England,” said the earl.

“It would be awful celebrating Christmas in this filthy weather. Oh, do say yes. Only think of poor Rose.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. I’ll get my secretary to make the arrangements.”

Daisy darted back up the stairs to Rose’s bedchamber. Rose was lying in bed, reading a book.

“We’re going to Nice!” said Daisy, pirouetting around the room.

“What? When?”

“As soon as possible. Just think! Sunshine and adventures.”

Rose smiled at her maid’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re happy. Why should they decide on Nice?”

Daisy looked at her. If she told Rose about Captain Cathcart, Rose might tell her mother and then they wouldn’t go.

“Dunno,” she said.

Keep reading for an excerpt from
Marion Chesney’s next mystery:

HASTY DEATH

Now available from
St. Martin’s/Minotaur Paperbacks!

Don’t when offered a dish at a friend’s table, look at it critically, turn it about with the spoon and fork, and then refuse it.

-ETIQUETTE FOR WOMEN

BY ONE OF THE ARISTOCRACY

Winter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper and the housekeeper blamed the first footman and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.

Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some businesswomen’s hostel in Bloomsbury with her maid, Daisy.

The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would
assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.

Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense. “For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.”

“I don’t think I want to get married,” said Rose.

“Then you should have told us that last year before we wasted a fortune on your season,” roared the earl.

Rose had the grace to blush.

Lady Polly tried a softer approach. “We are going to Nice. You’ll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.”

“I want to work.”

“It’s the fault of that ex-chorus girl maid of yours,” raged the earl.

Daisy Levine, Rose’s maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit. Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a lady’s maid.

“It is my idea, Pa,” said Rose. “We’ve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.”